Golden Cage

The Gulfstream’s cabin pressure makes the champagne taste like metal and honey. I’ve had three glasses since we left Beirut. Maybe four. The bubbles have gone from sharp to soft on my tongue, and the hum of the engines has settled into my bones like a second heartbeat.

Amir sits across from me, his jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He’s watching me over the rim of his own glass, which he’s barely touched. The amber liquid inside catches the cabin light, throws little gold flecks across his knuckles. Those knuckles have broken jaws. I’ve seen the X-rays. I’ve seen the men.

“You’re staring,” I say.

“I’m admiring.”

“Same thing.”

He smiles. It’s the smile that closes deals, the one that makes men sign contracts they haven’t read. He’s used it on me since I was old enough to notice. Now it’s mine. Legally. The paperwork is in a folder somewhere in the belly of this plane, signed by a judge who owed him a favor, stamped by a clerk who didn’t ask questions. Mrs. Baran Amir. The name feels like a dress that doesn’t fit yet.

The ring on my finger weighs more than my phone. Three carats, emerald cut, set in platinum. It catches the light every time I move my hand, which is often. I can’t stop touching it. Not because I love it. Because it’s real. Because it means something happened, something irreversible, and I’m still waiting for the floor to drop out.

“More champagne?” Amir lifts the bottle from the ice bucket. The label says something French I can’t pronounce. It costs more than my first car.

“I should probably slow down.”

“Why?”

Good question. I can’t think of a single reason. We’re thirty-five thousand feet above the Mediterranean, heading west toward an island I’ve only seen in photographs. White sand, turquoise water, a suite with a private plunge pool. His wedding gift to me. That and the ring. And the car. And the apartment in Paris I haven’t seen yet.

He pours. The liquid fizzes up the flute, settles just below the rim. I take it because my hand is already reaching, because saying no to him feels like a language I haven’t learned.

“To us,” he says, lifting his glass.

“To us.”

We drink. The champagne is cold and sharp, cuts through the fog in my head for a second, then settles back into warmth. I feel it in my chest, my fingertips, the backs of my knees. I feel it everywhere.

The cabin is small. Private jets always look bigger in pictures. In person, it’s a tube with leather seats and a fold-out table and a bathroom the size of a closet. The flight attendant disappeared somewhere after takeoff. I haven’t seen her since. Just Amir and me and the drone of the engines and the champagne going flat in my glass.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

I am. I’m thinking about the wedding. The way my mother cried. The way my father’s friends shook Amir’s hand and didn’t look at me. The way the imam’s voice droned on and on, Arabic syllables I understood but couldn’t feel. I’m thinking about the way Amir kissed me at the reception, in front of everyone, his hand on the back of my neck, his tongue in my mouth, and how I didn’t pull away. How I didn’t want to.

I’m thinking about the fact that he’s my father. Not by blood. By law. By marriage. By everything that matters in this world we live in.

He adopted me when I was seven. My real father was a business associate who died in a car bombing outside Damascus. My mother was his mistress. When he died, she had nowhere to go. Amir took us in. He gave us a house, a name, a life. He gave me everything.

And now he’s given me this.

“You’re doing it again,” he says.

“Doing what?”

“That thing with your face. Like you’re solving a puzzle.”

“Maybe I am.”

“There’s no puzzle, Baran. You’re my wife. That’s the whole thing.”

The word wife in his mouth sounds like a verdict. I take another drink.

The sun is setting somewhere behind us, and the cabin has gone gold. It paints his face in warm light, softens the sharp lines around his eyes, the gray at his temples. He’s fifty-three. He looks forty. He runs five miles every morning, lifts weights in a home gym that costs more than most houses, eats clean, sleeps four hours a night. He’s a machine. A beautiful, terrifying machine.

And he’s mine.

That’s the part I can’t get my head around. Not the marriage. Not the sex, which hasn’t happened yet, not technically, not all the way. The part where he chose me. Out of all the women in Beirut, in Paris, in London, in every city he does business in, he chose the girl he raised. The girl who used to call him Papa. The girl who cried on his shoulder when her first boyfriend broke her heart. The girl who knows every one of his secrets because she’s been listening at doors since she was old enough to understand that secrets are currency.

I know what he did to the man who killed my father. I know where the bodies are buried. Literally. I know the names on the payroll, the politicians in his pocket, the judges who take his calls. I know him better than anyone alive.

And he knows me.

That’s the terrifying part. That’s the part that makes my stomach flip every time he looks at me. He knows me. He knows the girl who used to steal cigarettes from his desk and smoke them out her bedroom window. He knows the teenager who lost her virginity to a boy he had beaten bloody the next day. He knows the woman who’s been in love with him since she was old enough to know what love was, and too smart to ever say it out loud.

Until he said it first.

“Baran.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

I don’t move. Not because I don’t want to. Because I do. Because wanting it makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something, and I don’t know if I’ll fall or fly.

He sets his glass down. The sound is small and sharp in the quiet cabin. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks at me with those eyes. Dark brown, almost black. Eyes that have watched men die and not blinked.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

I look down. They are. Just a little. The champagne, I tell myself. The altitude. The fact that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Anything but the truth.

He stands up. The cabin is small enough that it only takes two steps to reach me. He doesn’t sit. He crouches in front of my seat, one hand on the armrest, the other on my knee. His palm is warm through the silk of my dress. I can feel the heat of it, the weight. I can feel every finger.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

“I told you. Nothing.”

“Then tell me what you’re feeling.”

That’s harder. I don’t have words for it. Or I do, but they’re not the kind of words I want to say out loud. I want to say I feel like I’m drowning. I want to say I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for twenty years and I’m finally about to exhale. I want to say I feel like a girl who just jumped off a cliff and doesn’t know if there’s water below.

“I feel drunk,” I say.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

He smiles again. This one is different. Softer. Almost sad. He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my cheek, and I shiver. I can’t help it. I’ve been shivering at his touch since I was fourteen years old and he put his hand on my shoulder to tell me my grandmother died. That was the first time I understood that my body knew something my brain didn’t.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You are. I can see it.”

“I’m afraid of what I want.”

The words come out before I can stop them. They hang in the air between us, small and naked. I want to take them back. I want to swallow them. But they’re out now, and he’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“You know.”

“Say it.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

I close my eyes. The champagne is making me brave. Or stupid. Or both. I feel his hand move from my knee, up my thigh, just a little. Just enough to let me know he’s there. Just enough to make me want more.

“I want you to kiss me,” I say.

“I’ve been kissing you all day.”

“Not like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

He’s quiet for a moment. I open my eyes. He’s still crouching in front of me, still looking at me, but something has changed. The air in the cabin feels thicker. The hum of the engines feels louder. The gold light from the setting sun feels like it’s burning my skin.

“If I kiss you like I mean it,” he says, “I won’t be able to stop.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re my wife.”

“I know.”

“You’re my daughter.”

“I know that too.”

He stands up. For a second, I think he’s going to walk away. Go back to his seat. Pour himself another drink. Pretend this didn’t happen. But he doesn’t. He leans down, one hand on the back of my seat, the other on the armrest, and he kisses me.

It’s not like the kiss at the wedding. That was for show. That was for the cameras, the guests, the world. This is different. This is his mouth on mine, soft at first, then harder. This is his tongue sliding between my lips, tasting like whiskey and something darker. This is his hand moving from the seat to the back of my neck, holding me in place, not letting me pull away.

Not that I want to.

I kiss him back. I can’t help it. My hands find his chest, his shoulders, the back of his head. His hair is thick and silver at the temples, and I’ve wanted to touch it for years. I’ve wanted to run my fingers through it, pull his face down to mine, feel his weight on top of me. I’ve wanted it so long that wanting it feels like breathing.

He pulls back. Just an inch. Just enough to look at me.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Tell me again.”

“Yes.”

He kisses me again. Deeper this time. His hand moves from my neck to my shoulder, down my arm, to my waist. He pulls me up from the seat, and I go. I go because my body has been waiting for this since before I knew what waiting was. I go because standing is better than sitting. Because being pressed against him is better than being apart. Because his mouth is on mine and his hands are on my hips and the cabin is spinning and I don’t care.

We stumble. The jet lurches, just a little, just enough to throw us off balance. He catches me. Of course he does. He always catches me. He pushes me back against the wall of the cabin, his body covering mine, his mouth never leaving mine. I feel the cold metal of the fuselage through the thin silk of my dress. I feel the heat of him through his shirt. I feel everything.

His hand slides down my side, over my hip, to the hem of my dress. His fingers find the bare skin of my thigh. I gasp into his mouth. He swallows it.

“You’re shaking,” he says against my lips.

“I know.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

“You know where.”

He laughs. Low and dark. The sound vibrates through his chest, into mine. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Amir.”

“Say it.”

“I want you to touch my pussy.”

The words feel foreign in my mouth. Dirty and sweet. I’ve never said them out loud before. Not to anyone. Not even to myself. But he pulls them out of me like he pulls everything out of me. Like he’s been pulling things out of me since I was a child. Secrets. Truths. The things I didn’t even know I was hiding.

His hand moves higher. His fingers brush the edge of my underwear. Silk. Black. I bought them for today. For him. For this. He feels them, and he groans. A real groan, low in his throat. The sound goes straight to my clit.

“You planned this,” he says.

“Maybe.”

“You wore these for me.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re a liar, Baran.”

“I’m your liar.”

He kisses me again. Harder. His fingers slide under the silk, find me wet and ready. I moan into his mouth. I can’t help it. I’ve been wet since we left the ground. Since before that. Since the moment I saw him waiting at the altar, in his dark suit, with that look on his face. The look that said mine.

He circles my clit with his thumb. Slow. Deliberate. The way he does everything. I buck against his hand, and he laughs again.

“Patience,” he says.

“I don’t want patience.”

“I know.”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please make me come.”

He pulls his hand away. I nearly cry. The loss is physical, a sharp ache in my gut. I open my eyes, and he’s looking at me with that smile. The one that closes deals. The one that makes men sign contracts they haven’t read.

“Not yet,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because I want to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For the hotel. For the bed. For the room I paid for. I want to take my time with you. I want to spread you out and taste every inch of you. I want to make you come so many times you forget your own name. But not here. Not on a plane. Not when I can’t do it properly.”

“I don’t care about properly.”

“I do.”

He steps back. The space between us feels like a chasm. I’m still pressed against the wall, still shaking, still wet. My dress is bunched around my hips. My underwear is ruined. My lips are swollen. I look at him, and he looks at me, and I want to kill him. I want to kiss him. I want to drop to my knees and beg.

“You’re cruel,” I say.

“I’m patient.”

“Same thing.”

He smiles. “Sit down. Drink your champagne. We’ll be there in an hour.”

“An hour?”

“Give or take.”

I pull my dress down. My hands are still trembling. I walk back to my seat, and I feel his eyes on me the whole way. I sit. I pick up my glass. The champagne is warm now, flat, but I drink it anyway. I need something to do with my hands. Something to do with my mouth.

He sits across from me. He doesn’t pour himself another drink. He just watches me. The gold light is fading, turning purple, then blue. The cabin is getting dark. I can barely see his face.

“You’re angry,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m frustrated.”

“That’s the point.”

I finish the champagne. I set the glass down. I look at him through the dim light, and I feel something shift in my chest. Something hard and sharp. Something that’s been there for a long time, buried under years of wanting and not having. It’s not anger. It’s not frustration. It’s power.

He thinks he’s in control. He thinks he’s the one making the rules. But he’s not. He’s been dancing to my tune since I was fourteen years old. He just doesn’t know it yet.

“You think you know me,” I say.

“I do know you.”

“You know the girl I was. You don’t know the woman I am.”

He leans forward. The seat creaks. “Then show me.”

“I will.”

“When?”

“When you least expect it.”

He laughs. But it’s not the same laugh. It’s tighter. Less sure. I’ve surprised him. Good. I want to surprise him. I want to keep surprising him for the rest of our lives.

The pilot comes over the intercom. Something about descent. Something about arrival. I don’t listen. I’m too busy watching Amir’s face. The way the blue light catches the silver in his hair. The way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking. The way his eyes never leave mine.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

“You.”

“What about me?”

“The first time I saw you.”

“I was seven.”

“You were wearing a yellow dress. Your mother was crying. You weren’t. You looked at me like you already knew something I didn’t.”

“What did I know?”

“That I was going to marry you.”

I laugh. It comes out sharp and bright. “You didn’t know that.”

“I did.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You were thirty-three. I was seven. You didn’t look at a seven-year-old and think, there’s my wife.”

“I thought, there’s someone I need to protect. There’s someone I need to keep. The rest came later.”

“When?”

“When you were sixteen. You came home from school with a black eye. Some boy had hit you. You didn’t cry. You just looked at me and said, ‘Make him pay.’ And I did. I made him pay so hard his family left the country. And when I came home that night, you were waiting for me in the kitchen. You had a glass of whiskey poured. You said, ‘Thank you.’ And I looked at you, and I thought, there she is. There’s my wife.”

I remember that night. I remember the whiskey. I remember the way he looked at me, like I was something he’d been searching for his whole life and just found. I remember thinking, this is wrong. This is my father. And then I remember thinking, he’s not my father. He never was.

“You waited seven years,” I say.

“I waited until you were ready.”

“How did you know I was ready?”

“You kissed me back at the wedding.”

“That was for show.”

“Was it?”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. He knows. He’s always known.

The plane begins its descent. The cabin tilts, and my stomach tilts with it. I look out the window. The island is below us, a dark shape in a darker sea, dotted with lights. Aruba. Our honeymoon. Our new life. Our secret.

I think about my mother. She’s back in Beirut, in the house he gave us, the house she’s lived in for twenty years. She cried at the wedding. She kissed my cheek and said, “Be happy.” She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to. She knows. She’s always known.

I think about the life I’m leaving behind. The friends I won’t see anymore. The parties I won’t go to. The boys I won’t kiss. All of it gone, traded for this. For him. For a ring that weighs more than my phone and a name that isn’t mine.

I think about the life I’m flying toward. The suite with the plunge pool. The white sand. The turquoise water. The bed I’ll share with him tonight. The things he’ll do to me. The things I’ll let him do. The things I’ll beg him to do.

I think about the fact that I’m not scared. I should be. I should be terrified. But I’m not. I’m excited. I’m alive. I’m finally, after twenty years of waiting, exactly where I’m supposed to be.

The plane touches down. The wheels hit the runway, and the cabin shakes, and Amir reaches across the aisle and takes my hand. His palm is warm. His fingers are strong. He holds me like he’s been holding me my whole life. Like he’ll never let go.

“Ready?” he asks.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

I look at him. The lights of the runway flash across his face. He’s beautiful. He’s terrible. He’s mine.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m ready.”

The plane stops. The engines wind down. The flight attendant appears from wherever she’s been hiding, smiling, telling us to have a wonderful honeymoon. I don’t hear her. I’m too busy looking at him. I’m too busy thinking about what happens next.

He stands up. He offers me his hand. I take it. He pulls me to my feet, and I feel the champagne rush to my head, and I stumble. He catches me. Of course he does. He always catches me.

“Careful,” he says.

“I’m always careful.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” I say. “I’m not.”

We walk to the door. The heat hits me like a wall. The air is thick and sweet, salt and flowers and something else. Something I can’t name. The tarmac glows in the dark. The palm trees sway in the wind. The stars are brighter here. Everything is brighter here.

A car is waiting. Black. Tinted windows. A driver in a suit. Amir helps me in, and I slide across the leather seat, and he follows, and the door closes, and we’re alone again. Just us. Just the dark. Just the hum of the engine and the road beneath us.

He puts his hand on my knee. I put my hand on his. We don’t speak. We don’t have to. The island slides past the windows, dark and green and full of secrets. The hotel appears, a glowing white shape against the black sky. The car stops. The driver opens the door. Amir gets out first, then offers me his hand.

I take it.

The lobby is marble and glass and air conditioning. The woman at the desk smiles and hands him a key card. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t have to. She knows. Everyone knows. The whole world knows.

We walk to the elevator. We step inside. The doors close. We’re alone. He presses the button for the top floor. The elevator rises. My heart rises with it.

“Last chance,” he says.

“For what?”

“To change your mind.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because once we get to that room, I’m not going to be gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

“You don’t know what you want.”

“I know exactly what I want.”

The elevator stops. The doors open. The hallway is long and quiet, lit by soft yellow lamps. He takes my hand and leads me down the hall. My heels click on the marble. His shoes are silent. He’s always silent. He’s a ghost. A beautiful, terrifying ghost.

He stops at a door. He slides the key card. The lock clicks. He pushes the door open, and I step inside, and the room is everything I imagined. White curtains. Dark wood. A bed the size of a small country. A balcony that opens onto the sea. The moonlight pours in through the glass, silver and cold.

He closes the door behind us. The click of the lock sounds like a gunshot.

I turn to face him. He’s leaning against the door, arms crossed, watching me. The moonlight catches his face. He looks younger in this light. Softer. Almost human.

“Come here,” he says.

I go.

I don’t walk. I float. The champagne and the altitude and the want have turned my bones to air. I stop in front of him. He uncrosses his arms. He reaches out and takes my face in his hands. His palms are warm. His thumbs brush my cheekbones.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

“So are you.”

“I’m old.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m old enough to be your father.”

“You are my father.”

He flinches. Just a little. Just enough for me to see. I’ve hit something. A nerve. A truth he doesn’t want to look at. Good.

“Does that bother you?” I ask.

“Does what bother me?”

“That you married your daughter.”

“You’re not my daughter.”

“I’m legally your daughter.”

“Not anymore.”

“What am I now?”

“You’re my wife.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means I own you.”

The words hang in the air between us. I should be offended. I should slap him. I should walk out. But I don’t. I can’t. Because the truth is, I want to be owned. I’ve wanted it my whole life. I’ve wanted someone to claim me, to keep me, to never let me go. And he’s the only one who ever could.

“Say it again,” I whisper.

“I own you.”

“Again.”

“I own you, Baran. Every inch of you. Every breath. Every thought. You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He kisses me. Hard. His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, to my back, to my ass. He pulls me against him, and I feel him, all of him, hard and ready. I moan into his mouth. He swallows it.

He walks me backward. The bed hits the back of my knees, and I fall. He falls with me. His body covers mine, and the weight of him is the best thing I’ve ever felt. He’s heavy. He’s solid. He’s real.

His mouth moves from my lips to my neck. He bites. I gasp. He licks. I shiver. His hands find the zipper of my dress, and he pulls it down, slow, deliberate, the way he does everything. The silk slides off my shoulders. He sits up, straddling me, and looks at me. Just looks. His eyes move from my face to my breasts to my stomach to the black silk between my legs.

“You’re perfect,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He bends down and kisses my collarbone. My chest. The curve of my breast. He takes my nipple in his mouth, and I arch off the bed. His tongue is hot and wet. His teeth are sharp. He bites, and I cry out, and he laughs against my skin.

“Sensitive,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He moves to the other breast. Same thing. Kiss. Lick. Bite. I’m writhing beneath him. My hands are in his hair. My legs are wrapped around his waist. I’m grinding against him, and he’s letting me, and I can feel how hard he is through his pants.

“Please,” I say.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.”

“Not yet.”

“Amir.”

“Not yet.”

He slides down my body. His mouth moves from my breasts to my stomach to my hips. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of my underwear and pulls them down. Slow. So slow. I lift my hips to help him, and he smiles.

“Impatient,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He tosses the underwear aside. He spreads my legs. He looks at me. All of me. The most intimate part of me. And he doesn’t look away.

“You’re wet,” he says.

“I know.”

“You’ve been wet all day.”

“I know.”

“Since when?”

“Since the wedding.”

“Since before that?”

“Since always.”

He groans. The sound is low and deep, and it vibrates through me. He lowers his head. His breath is warm on my skin. His tongue touches my clit, and I scream. I can’t help it. The sound echoes off the walls, off the ceiling, off the sea outside.

He licks. Slow. Deliberate. The way he does everything. He circles my clit with his tongue, and I buck against his face, and he holds me down with his hands on my hips. He’s strong. So strong. I can’t move. I can only feel.

He slides a finger inside me. Then two. He curls them, finds the spot, and I see stars. Literally. The room goes white, then black, then white again. I’m coming. I’m coming so hard I can’t breathe. I’m coming so hard I forget my own name.

He doesn’t stop. He keeps licking. Keeps fingering. Keeps pushing me higher. I come again. And again. And again. I lose count. I lose everything. I’m nothing but nerve endings and pleasure and him.

Finally, he stops. He pulls his fingers out, and I whimper at the loss. He sits up. He puts his fingers in his mouth. He tastes me. He closes his eyes. He moans.

“You taste like honey,” he says.

“I taste like you.”

“Same thing.”

He stands up. He unbuttons his shirt. Slow. Deliberate. He’s giving me a show. I watch. I can’t look away. His chest is broad and brown, dusted with gray hair. His stomach is flat. His arms are thick. He’s beautiful. He’s terrible. He’s mine.

He unbuckles his belt. He unzips his pants. He pushes them down, and his cock springs free. It’s thick. Long. Perfect. I’ve seen it before. Once. When I was seventeen and I walked into his study without knocking. He was standing by the window, naked, fresh from the shower. He turned, and I saw everything. He didn’t cover up. He just looked at me. And I looked at him. And then I turned and walked out, and neither of us ever mentioned it.

But I thought about it. Every night for seven years. I thought about it every time I touched myself. I thought about it every time I kissed a boy and wished it was him.

And now it’s here. Now it’s real.

He kneels on the bed. He positions himself between my legs. He looks at me. His eyes are dark. His jaw is tight. He’s holding himself back. I can see it. I can feel it.

“Last chance,” he says.

“I told you. I’m not changing my mind.”

“Once I’m inside you, you’re mine. Forever.”

“I’m already yours.”

“Not like this.”

“Yes,” I say. “Like this.”

He pushes inside me. Slow. So slow. I feel every inch. Every ridge. Every vein. He’s big. Bigger than I imagined. Bigger than I hoped. He fills me completely. He stretches me. It hurts. It hurts so good.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“More?”

“Yes.”

He pushes deeper. All the way. He bottoms out, and I feel him in my throat. I feel him in my heart. I feel him everywhere.

He starts to move. Slow at first. Gentle. He’s watching my face. He’s looking for pain. He’s looking for pleasure. He’s looking for everything.

I wrap my legs around his waist. I pull him closer. I want him deeper. I want him harder. I want him to fuck me like he means it.

“Harder,” I say.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He pulls out. Almost all the way. Then slams back in. I scream. He does it again. And again. And again. The bed is hitting the wall. The headboard is banging. The sound is loud and rhythmic and obscene.

He’s fucking me. Really fucking me. His hands are on my hips. His mouth is on my neck. His breath is hot in my ear. He’s saying things. Dirty things. Things I’ve never heard him say. Things I’ve never heard anyone say.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “You’ve always been mine. Since the first time I saw you. Since the first time you looked at me. You’re mine, Baran. Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours.”

He roars. A real roar. Animal and raw. He comes inside me. Hot and thick and endless. I feel it. I feel all of it. And then I come too. Again. Harder than before. The world shatters. The universe ends. And then, slowly, it begins again.

He collapses on top of me. His weight is crushing. I don’t care. I want it. I want him to crush me. I want him to break me. I want him to put me back together.

We lie there. Minutes. Hours. I don’t know. The moon moves across the sky. The sea whispers outside. The air conditioning hums. Everything is quiet. Everything is still.

He rolls off me. He pulls me against his chest. His heart is pounding. I can hear it. I can feel it. It’s the most human thing about him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You’re not sorry?”

“No.”

“You should be.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not.”

I laugh. It comes out soft and broken. “That’s not a reason.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

He kisses the top of my head. His lips are warm. His breath is soft. “Go to sleep,” he says.

“I’m not tired.”

“You will be.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done with you.”

He’s right. He’s not. He’s never done with me. He’ll never be done with me. And I’ll never want him to be.

I close my eyes. The champagne and the sex and the altitude have turned my bones to water. I’m floating. I’m sinking. I’m disappearing.

But before I go, I think about my mother. I think about the house in Beirut. I think about the life I left behind. I think about the girl I used to be. The girl who called him Papa. The girl who cried on his shoulder. The girl who didn’t know what she wanted.

That girl is gone. She died somewhere over the Atlantic. She died with the champagne and the sunset and the first kiss. She died, and I was born.

I open my eyes. He’s watching me. He’s always watching me.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I’m thinking about the first time I saw you.”

“You already told me.”

“I know.”

“Tell me again.”

“You were wearing a yellow dress. Your mother was crying. You weren’t. You looked at me like you already knew something I didn’t.”

“What did I know?”

“That I was going to marry you.”

“And now you have.”

“And now I have.”

He kisses me. Soft. Gentle. The way he wasn’t before. The way he won’t be again. Not tonight. Not ever.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

“I’m not tired.”

“You will be.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done with you.”

He’s right. He’s not. He’s never done with me. He’ll never be done with me. And I’ll never want him to be.

I close my eyes. The champagne and the sex and the altitude have turned my bones to water. I’m floating. I’m sinking. I’m disappearing.

But before I go, I think about my mother. I think about the house in Beirut. I think about the life I left behind. I think about the girl I used to be. The girl who called him Papa. The girl who cried on his shoulder. The girl who didn’t know what she wanted.

That girl is gone. She died somewhere over the Atlantic. She died with the champagne and the sunset and the first kiss. She died, and I was born.

I open my eyes. He’s watching me. He’s always watching me.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I’m thinking about the first time I saw you.”

“You already told me.”

“I know.”

“Tell me again.”

“You were wearing a yellow dress. Your mother was crying. You weren’t. You looked at me like you already knew something I didn’t.”

“What did I know?”

“That I was going to marry you.”

“And now you have.”

“And now I have.”

He kisses me. Soft. Gentle. The way he wasn’t before. The way he won’t be again. Not tonight. Not ever.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

“I’m not tired.”

“You will be.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done with you.”

He’s right. He’s not. He’s never done with me. He’ll never be done with me. And I’ll never want him to be.

I close my eyes. The champagne and the sex and the altitude have turned my bones to water. I’m floating. I’m sinking. I’m disappearing.

But before I go, I think about my mother. I think about the house in Beirut. I think about the life I left behind. I think about the girl I used to be. The girl who called him Papa. The girl who cried on his shoulder. The girl who didn’t know what she wanted.

That girl is gone. She died somewhere over the Atlantic. She died with the champagne and the sunset and the first kiss. She died, and I was born.

I open my eyes. He’s watching me. He’s always watching me.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I’m thinking about the first time I saw you.”

“You already told me.”

“I know.”

“Tell me again.”

“You were wearing a yellow dress. Your mother was crying. You weren’t. You looked at me like you already knew something I didn’t.”

“What did I know?”

“That I was going to marry you.”

“And now you have.”

“And now I have.”

He kisses me. Soft. Gentle. The way he wasn’t before. The way he won’t be again. Not tonight. Not ever.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

“I’m not tired.”

“You will be.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not done with you.”

He’s right. He’s not. He’s never done with me. He’ll never be done with me. And I’ll never want him to be.

I close my eyes. The champagne and the sex and the altitude have turned my bones to water. I’m floating. I’m sinking. I’m disappearing.

But before I go, I think about my mother. I think about the house in Beirut. I think about the life I left behind. I think about the girl I used to be. The girl who called him Papa. The girl who cried on his shoulder. The girl who didn’t know what she wanted.

That girl is gone. She died somewhere over the Atlantic. She died with the champagne and the sunset and the first kiss. She died, and I was born.